


Casual cruelty

by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Insecure Roger, Sadness, Tears, supportive band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 01:55:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16883409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Of_Dresden/pseuds/ClaraCivry
Summary: Someone is very mean to Roger and causes him to break down. A little.But there are people to pick up the pieces. Emotional h/c, fluff





	Casual cruelty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePagesWeTurn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePagesWeTurn/gifts).



> Based on a prompts by ThePagesWeTurn and Ari in my hurt Roger fic.

“Hey, can you tell me where the band is?”

Roger looked at the journalist with an odd look. This was an important, famous journalist, surely he had to know that he was part of the band as well? If he needed anything from some band members, why not start with him?

“Right here, mate. Whatever it is you need to ask, you can ask me.”

The journalist scoffed loudly, laughed condescendingly and made a “you can't be serious” face. Literally laughed in his face for suggesting he ask whatever question he had to him, as it was the funniest notion in the world.

“You're a drummer.” the man said, spitting out that last word as if it was some sort of disgusting thing. “How many superstar drummers do you know? Nobody cares about drummers.”

Well, that was painful to hear. Roger took pride in his drumming, in his solos and in his beats and rhythm. He felt that they were an important part of Queen, and that people noticed that – noticed him and all the effort he put in the drumming. A bit heartbroken, Roger just said:

“A write and sing some of the songs, too.”

“Yeah, the worst ones in each set.” He put a hand on Roger's shoulder and continued, with am "I'm saying this for your own good" look. “Nobody wants to hear you and your car song in that odd... high.... nasal voice. It's wasted concert time. And kind of tells me that you have really nothing interesting to say. Anyways, the others, Freddie Mercury around? Even the guitarist will do.”

Roger pointed out to the place where he'd seen Freddie last, too hurt to even be able to produce any words. The hardest thing was that he felt that what this jerk had said had some truth in it, that this was what everybody thought but didn't dare say. He was quick to anger, he was bitchy and not afraid of getting into fights, pulling out “stunts”. They probably didn't tell him to avoid getting yelled in his odd high nasal voice. But part of him had already known those things, but hadn't wanted to admit them. 

The journalist lit up when he saw Freddie, not caring about he'd just broken Roger in a million little pieces.

“Thanks, man. I'll call you if I need someone to look pretty in the pictures.”

And so he left and Roger was alone, replaying those words, letting them sink in. Hard truths, but probably truths nevertheless. Nobody cared about him, his songs were bad, his voice was bad and he had nothing interesting to add to the group. His only redeeming virtue was that he was pretty. It hit him really hard, he found himself holding back tears. No need to make a fool of himself in front of all these people, on top of everything.

But when he was safely hidden from the rest of the world in one of the stalls in that toilet, he let the misery and the sorrow take him. He was right, wasn't he? Of course he was. He was a bad singer, he was a crappy songwriter and nobody cared about how he drummed. He was the last person to be considered.... Anyone else could drum instead and people wouldn't mind. Nobody cared about drummers, anyway, they only cared about who sang and wrote the good songs. He was disposable.

Just there because he was friends with the others and he was pretty. He'd let himself believe that he was as good and as important as the others, he'd let himself believe that he was a star too, a great musician, someone worthy of that praise, someone... as good as the others. But he was just fooling himself. He was no engineer or astrophysicist, he would never write something as Killer Queen or Love of my life, he was mediocre, unsubstantial, and he was very definitely the weakest link of the band. Part of him had known that, but... it still hurt.

Were his songs a waste of a time? He'd put effort and time of his life on them, and had been proud of what he'd done. Maybe they weren't as good as anything written by the other three, but a waste of time? It hurt. But maybe it was true, maybe nobody really liked them, or him, him with his annoying over the top personality. Him always bitching, him never happy enough with anything, him getting them in trouble. Roger wondered how many times the others had considered looking for new drummers. Probably every day.

And so he was crying in that bathroom stall, realising what a nuisance he was, what a pitiful unimportant musician he really was. Queen would probably get enough of him and his attempts at standing out and robbing them of concert time, and get a new drummer who knew his place, didn't have an odd high nasal voice that nobody liked and maybe even possibly had something interesting to say. How could he had been so blind to think that he was important for them, that he was part of their success? There was a reason nobody cared about drummers, probably.

This kind of also shattered all the dreams he had of sometime in the future singing lead on his own, playing guitar, doing some awseome album in which he sang and played all instruments. It would be bad anyways, what was the point? Nobody would care, or they would laugh at his face like that man had done. They would mock, and maybe they would be right. How dare he think himself on the same level as Freddie or Brian.

It was his own fault, his fault not having simply directed the man to Fred when he asked about the band, for wanting to be part of it. Always have to part of everything, always in the camera, always speaking, always not letting the others speak to say his own uninteresting things. Stupid, idiot, Roger.

_I'll call you if I need someone to look pretty in the pictures._

He cried harder.

**

Freddie was being interviewed by some idiot but loving giving long, outrageous answers to every question. Brian had drunk a bit too much to hold his tongue on the next irrelevant question, so he just went to the toilet to see if he could freshen up a bit, get a better grip on himself.

And that's when he heard it. It was very faint through the stall door, but someone was crying, and it sounded... oddly familiar.

“Rog?”

The name escaped his lips before his brain even realised who was that it was crying.

“Bri?” The voice was weak and broken, but it was definitely him.

“You okay? What happened?”

Why on earth would Roger be crying? They had a great week, they were successful, young, popular. And Roger wasn't a guy that was very prone to sadness. Something must have happened.

The stall door opened and Roger came out, with his face covered in tears and his eyes red and puffy from too much crying. His drunken self just threw himself at Brian, looking for some comfort for his hurt pride, his hurt heart, his hurt self. All of his hurt.

Brian just embraced him and caressed the familiar blonde head carefully, but getting very worried.

“Rog, talk to me.”

After some more crying, Roger finally spoke.

“There's this guy... wanted to talk to the band, so I told him... told him, why not talk to me? And he laughed at me... He said, Bri, he said.... nobody cares about... he said my songs are a waste of time....he said.... no one wants to hear my voice.... that I don't – I don't have anything interesting to say... I....that I'm only pretty... that I am medi -mediocre....”

Brian felt extremely offended on his friend's behalf. This was uncalled for, cruel and not to mention not true at all. The nerve of that man, standing in front of a great drummer and laughing at his face. It was not fair, it was not right and... the worst part was that if Roger had broken down like that instead of lashing out and punching the man, was probably because he felt that what he said was true. That was why he was crying and not shouting, or complaining.

Brian took his friend's wet face and looked him in the eye, seriously.

“None of that is true, ok? I am a very clever man and I can tell you, with all my degrees and skills that none of that is true. People care about you. A lot. You have interesting things to say, you have a lot of beauty and life inside of you. You are so much more than a pretty face, Rog, and you can not believe otherwise. You think we would have put up with your tantrums if we didn't think you were worthy? You are, you are so very worth it.”

"You're just trying to be... to be nice. I'm the worst... the worst of the band. Anyone... could drum.. without being so annoying."

"No, Roger! None of that! You are so important for us, Queen would be nothing without our impetuous drummer. We need you, Rog. Nobody else will do. They don't match up, none of any other drummer is enough. It is you, always."

They embraced again, Roger kept crying but it was more last tears than wrecking sobs.

“Please, Rog, don't believe that idiot. Believe me, believe us. We wouldn't be half as interesting without you, you're the drama, the conflict, you are so much better than some bland drummer that just does as he's told. We love you for who you are, ok? And I personally love your voice.”

“Thanks...” Roger said, but his voice was still all choked up.

“Come on, I'll get you a drink. We can still save this night.”

When they got out, Brian saw that idiot taking pictures of Freddie. No.

He asked Roger to wait approached the man with an steady and slightly intimidating pace, a stern expression.

“Out of here.”

“What?”

“You insult one of us and still expect to make money with your articles and pictures?”

“He wasn't the greatest, but he didn't insult me.” Freddie said. “Is there something I don't know?”

“This is about what I said to the drummer, isn't it?”

Freddie's whole expression changed.

“What did you say to Roger?”

“He told him that nobody cared about him, that he had a bad voice, that his songs are wasted time. You've hurt my friend and I want you out of my sight. I'll make sure you never ever get near us again.”

“He did what?”

Freddie took the notebook where the man had been taking notes and ripped it to pieces. Then te tape recorder, and stepped on it. Several times.

“How could you something like that? I've been insulted my whole life but Roger is a sensitive soul... You cannot... How is he?”

“I reassured him best I could, but he's still pretty down. I think part of him was already insecure about these things, and this idiot only made him believe it more.”

“Oh, no, darling Roger... can we sue him or something? Huh, I'll talk to Miami. And I most certainly will talk with the head of... “Super Music” so they'll never get you again. To be so cruel... what had Roger done to you?”

“OUT.”

The man was out of there in seconds, realising that he had absolutely and completely fucked up.

Freddie ran to Roger and reassured him one million times. However much they fought, Roger was an important part of who they were, what they were. He was his friend and they had lived through a lot together. If Roger was hurt, it hurt him too. In his soul. He hated seeing the tear streaks in that gorgeous face, hated seeing those eyes so sad. 

They even rang Deaky and woke him up so that he could tell Roger that no, he wasn't a terrible singer, no of course he wasn't uninteresting, and of course they very much cared about him. But Roger kept thinking that they were only saying those things to spare his feelings, and it was clear that this man's casual cruelty had left a wound, and it was going to take some time until it healed.

Still, the members of Queen made sure that this journalist paid for being so careless and dismissive.

“It's so nice to have a nice interviewer, Jane.” Freddie said. “The last one insulted us, can you believe it? Called our dear Roger all shorts of mean things.”

The journalist wasn't able to find another job in months. And even then, it was in a gardening magazine.

The fans reacted to the “Roger was insulted” scandal with a wave of love and support. There was fan letters (many of them love letters), there were drawings, even paintings and just lots of notes of love and support.

But mostly it was John, Freddie and Brian that helped Roger recover from that bout of insecurity. They were careful to be supporting and very careful with their criticisms. Roger was more fragile creature than he could seem and when he hurt, he hurt deeply.

“Why don't you sing something for us, Rog? I feel like something different, I'm bored of hearing myself.”

And Roger smiled.

Sometimes they sent him to interviews, sometimes they made sure that he realised that people did like his songs. And there were drunken hugs, of course, and toasts to “the best drummer in the world”. Everyone helped in different ways, in the ways they knew. Brian was sure to make a point of it when Roger said something intelligent or particularly interesting, John smiled at him and remembered him always, Freddie made sure the blond knew he was his partying soulmate But there was still a shadow in his eyes, a little doubt that he wasn't good enough, that he didn't catch up.

“Drrrrum solo!” Freddie sang, and Roger smiled.

Even when he himself was doubting everything, he still had his drums, and he still had his friends.

And they cared about him. They cared about him very fucking much.

All of the cruelty in the world couldn't be compare to their bond.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you liked!
> 
> You know you want to comment! ;)


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